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Oswald held up a hand. “Calm yourself, Bryce. I will be back presently. A stroll will do me good.” He glanced back at the door. “And er...Take the Lady Fenella and her brother some repast. They have travelled many miles this day. Assure them I will be back in good time.” He moved to the outer door, hesitated and turned back. “Do not let her leave my office under any circumstances, Bryce,” he added. “If needs be, summon a guard to reinforce this.”

“I will my lord!” agreed his assistant fervently. “Never fear!”

Things had sorted themselves out without him having to exert himself at all, Oswald congratulated himself as he made his way unhurriedly to the east wing of the castle. Fenella Bernard was a short, rather plump female of twenty-six years. She had a round face and brown eyes which either looked wounded or startled and she dressed rather like a merchant’s wife. She would be extremely ill-equipped for court life, which meant no-one could blame him when he relegated her to Vawdrey Keep at the earliest opportunity. Yes, it was all very satisfactory. He had decided to walk past the chapel himself on the way and as he approached he heard raised voices and saw a small straggling group emerge from the chapel entrance. He thought he recognized Sir Ambrose, though he could only see the back of a short male figure and hear a peevish voice as he waved away the gaggle of palace squires and pages who had gathered in the doorway.

“Get away, the lot of you!” the groom objected, fussily holding his arm out for his new bride.

“Oh, how they crowd one Ambrose!” she complained. “It makes one feel quite faint!”

Oswald leant against a convenient pillar on the edge of the crowd. “Who’s the bridegroom?” he asked a passing group of young pages who were dispersing with disgruntled expressions.

“Some ambassador got wed,” the nearest boy told him with an indifferent shrug.

“Sir Ambrose Thane?” asked Oswald showing a silver coin between his fingers.

The boy next to him perked up. “Yes, my lord. That was him. Come back from up north.”

“It’s naught but a poor showing, though,” piped up the first boy. “No tokens or coins being distributed. Not even ribbons. Proper nip-cheese, he is!”

“Well, that is a shame,” said Oswald gravely. He held out a silver coin to the first and then the second boy in turn. They grinned at him. “Have you heard if he’s to host a celebration feast?” asked Oswald.

“Not him,” snorted the second page. “He’s far too mean!”

Oswald looked thoughtful. “Indeed, that is too bad,” he murmured before setting off once more in the direction of the castle kitchens. Once he was out of the castle’s west gate, he briskly made his way back to the forger’s doorstep.

The old man looked up in some surprise. “Knew you’d be back,” he admitted. “But not this soon!”

Oswald withdrew the betrothal document from his tunic and unfurled it. “I no longer require a falsified family tree,” he said without preamble. “But instead, have for you a far simpler task, involving this contract.” He looked up at Carleton and smiled. “You may keep the purse of gold, for I’m afraid I must wait for it to be completed now.”

The old man tutted, but approached to take the contract and scanned it with his keen eyes. “Fenella Bernard and Oswald Vawdrey,” he read aloud without curiosity. “Dated over ten years ago. Seems fairly standard. Looking for a loop-hole are you?” His rather reptilian gaze flickered over Oswald, who ignored the question.

“It’s a remarkable thing, is it not?” Oswald ruminated aloud. “How very little material difference there is between a betrothal and a marriage contract.”

Carleton’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, true enough. Oftentimes, just a matter of the consummation,” he agreed, after a slight pause.

“Not in this case,” Oswald said swiftly. He leant over the counter. “The bride was of tender years,” he explained, pointing to the birth date of Lady Fenella Bernard and then the date of the contract.

Carleton puffed out his cheeks. “You want him locked in tight,” he said.

“No escape,” agreed Oswald.

“Poor bugger,” said Carleton. “What did this,” he glanced down, “Oswald Vawdrey ever do to you?”

Oswald considered this a moment. “He did not keep his word,” he said softly.

Carleton peered down again at the paperwork. “Naught but a lad of nineteen,” he objected.

“A promise is a promise. And besides, it’s for his own good.”

“In your opinion,” interjected a skeptical Carleton.

“I imagine, on this subject, he is in complete agreement with me,” replied Oswald airily.

Carleton pulled a face. “It’s always easier to imagine that about other people, Mr Roberts.”

“Can you do it?”

“Of course, I can do it,” spluttered the older man indignantly. “Question is, should I? Could wreak havoc with other people’s lives this could!” He shook his head.